


The Cottage

by ViolentVioletEye



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF Phil Watson, But I should make it clear that Phil doesn't abuse him and he still loves him, Dadza, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Insane Wilbur Soot, Insanity, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil refers to him as 'it' for some time, Protective Phil Watson, Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot-centric, Wilbur is not okay but his dad is here to help him, Wilbur's just so fucking gone, fixing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27843496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentVioletEye/pseuds/ViolentVioletEye
Summary: His eyes widened.“The cottage,” he whispered.The cottage was where his son could find his peace. The cottage was where he could heal.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 240





	1. No Fool

**Author's Note:**

> TW for this series in whole; the first bit deals with Wilbur's insanity and his recovery to finding himself again. Phil refers to him as a monster and 'it' for sometime in his head, but he never mistreats Wilbur or hurts him. Its just to show how disconnected Wilbur is from reality, to the point where the _thing_ inhabiting his body isn't even human. But it gets better, and the rest of the fanfic will be VERY fluffy.

Philza wasn’t a fool.

Phil had been around since the early days of Minecraft. He had watched updates fly past like fish in a river, watched as new recipes appeared, old ones faded, rearranged-he still couldn’t make fences right on the first try. He was too old for a last name, having been born from the code before those became popular. He watched as people came and went, he remembered the names of heroes that no one else knew. He honored them. He kept them alive. And when he adopted his boys, he had their help.

His boys. His strong, pigheaded eldest named Techno, who made a bloody name for himself, who had the deepest laugh that sent chills down the spines of his enemies and pooled warmth in Phil’s chest. He remembered a time where his son never laughed. His youngest, his dear Tommy who grew more and more every day. His stubborn, loud, almost eccentric youngest that looked the most like him out of all three of them. People always mistook them for actual father and son. It always made him smile. He knew it pleased Tommy, even if he would never admit it.

And then there was his middle child. The second eldest, the first youngest. Wilbur, with his deep brown eyes, his wide smile, his beautiful voice. Skilled fingers that plucked melodies into a guitar, a good head on his shoulders, and a powerful sense of justice and such a deep and firm set of morals that they almost rivaled Phil’s own were what made up his middle child. He was so kind. He was so gentle. People were fooled by those kind brown eyes, they mistook him as weak, and he always gave them the shock of their life when he knocked their teeth out for lying their hands on his family and friends. If Techno didn’t get to it first of course.

This wasn’t his son. This wasn’t his Wilbur. This deranged man wearing a trench coat that was a tattered, pathetic excuse of a gift Phil had given him before he ran off with Tommy to make their own names. He had loved Phil’s overcoat growing up, always stealing it, slipping on arms that were too short for the long sleeves, curling up inside of the warmth that smelled of his adopted father and dozing off anywhere and everywhere. Phil had taken him home in his overcoat. Perhaps that was why he loved it so much. But this wasn’t the sweet boy he had found and taken home. This wasn’t the musically talented teen who loved to cheer up his little brother with silly melodies that he came up with on the fly. This wasn’t the strong, natural leader man that Phil could be proud of.

No. The man standing in front of him, with his awkwardly long limbs, so skinny Phil could feel his ribs when he grabbed him and forced him to the floor, could feel every bone in his arm as he pressed his knee against his wrist, pinning it to the floor when it was just inches from pressing that blasted button. Those psychotic, bland eyes were not his son’s warm brown ones, ones that held insanity and hatred instead of fondness and warmth and love for the world and every note it had. 

The man underneath him was an animal, kicking and screaming himself hoarse, clawing at Phil’s arms and leaving angry red lines in the wake of his jagged nails. He tore the sleeve of his overcoat, he spat hatred and insults like they were his native tongue, and all the while Phil stared in silence with dark eyes and a tight jaw until he finally grabbed this shell of a man by his collar. He jabbed a finger against the communicator wrapped around his wrist. They fizzed and then disappeared from the floor, leaving the room with those insane scribbles on the wall, and the lone button on the wall.

Philza was not a fool. He had seen updates fly by, he remembered recipes no one else did, he remembered glitches, bugs, heroes that he watched rise and fall to the dust; he had adopted and raised three beautiful boys into the men they were today. He was not a fool, and he would not allow, he would  _ never  _ allow his son to blow up an entire nation. He would never raise a sword to his own son. He would never leave his son to die, to fade into dust like those heroes of old. He would fix him. He would see happiness return to those eyes. He would listen to him laugh, he would hear him play that guitar again. He would mend his mind, lift his broken soul. He had done it once and he would do it again. He wouldn’t let anything else happen. He refused to let anything else happen.

And when Philza told the universe something, it listened.


	2. Broken Minds Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse before it gets better.

Phil flung the shell of the man into the cell and slammed the iron door shut. He locked it by slamming his fist against the button on the wall beside it. He walked past the bars, headed for the steps that would lead him out of the basement and into the kitchen of his home. That wild animal shoved itself to its shaking legs and threw itself against the bars, screaming at him through the bars, calling him a traitor, told him it should have expected that even he wouldn’t be on it’s side. Phil didn’t even spare it a glance as he walked past, stepping up the stairs leading to the old wooden door at the very time. He hadn’t used this basement in a long time. He had made it to imprison zombie villagers until he could find the proper materials needed to cure them. Techno had always helped him. Wilbur could never stomach the process, the smell of rotting flesh made him cry. Tommy had never had to deal with a zombie villager even being in the house when he used to live here.

Phil never thought that he would have to use the basement to imprison one of his own sons.

He shut the door behind him and rolled his shoulders as that thing in the cell continued to scream, the sound muffled but still so loud on his ears. That thing wasn’t his… It wasn’t his son. It was a monster, and Phil wouldn’t relent until he made it leave.

_ What happened? _

The thing inhabiting Wilbur’s body loved to scream. It would scream insults and demands it was in no position to be making. Sometimes, it would just scream. Senseless words and noises meant to keep Phil from concentrating, or sleeping, or enjoying a meal in peace. He had taken to plugging his ears with wool just to try and get some reprise while he slept, but he couldn’t keep them in during the day. Not when anyone could come to the door, or there could be a mob incident, or god forbid that thing down there would actually need him for something. Soon, the screaming just became background noise. Something that buzzed in the back of his head as he cooked, cleaned his weapons and armor, rearranged his house to his liking for the fifth time that day, just to keep busy.

_ Where was it? _

Whenever he left the house, it wasn’t for long trips. He would use the nether to get to the next village in a matter of minutes, get some food and ore, and then come back home to the relentless screaming and cursing. There would be hours of silence, usually after Phil brought food and water down to it, so it could let its throat recover. And then it would continue. It always continued.

He didn’t hurt that thing in the cell. Though it was just that, a thing, a monster, it still used his son’s sunken and pale face. It still had his voice and his eyes, no matter how bland they were. But he came close once, when he was pushing dinner through the small hole he had broken in the bars. It grabbed his wrist, dug those nails in, drew blood, and Phil immediately reached through the bars with his other hand and grabbed it by the collar of that blasted trench coat and yanked it forward, against the bars keeping them apart.

_ “Don’t,” _ he snarled, low and threatening,  _ “even try it.” _ For a moment, fear trembled in those usually blank or furious eyes. Phil wasn’t Tommy. He wasn’t Tubbo. He wasn’t it’s merry men of half-baked soldiers that should have never been fighting in a war in the first place. He wasn’t placid. He wouldn’t let it do whatever it wanted when it got angry. And his tone, anger dripping from his tongue like acid, made that very clear.

It kicked its tray over in a fit of frustration when they released each other. Phil didn’t spare it another glance, only glared forward as he walked back upstairs. He needed to wrap his wrist. He didn’t bother bringing another plate downstairs. It could wait until breakfast if it wanted to be that way.

It didn’t try to grab at Phil again.

_ Where’s l’Manberg? _

The screaming continued, and it finally got to Phil one day as he was trying to meditate. He had taught all of his sons how to meditate, with their own varying degrees of success. Techno had taken to it very well, Wilbur not so much, and Tommy not at all. They used to meditate as a family, and Tommy would last about ten minutes before he’d start pestering Wilbur, who would deal with it for maybe three minutes, five on a good day, and then he’d complain to Phil, and Techno would snap at them to be quiet, and Phil would sit, still in Zen, with an easy smile on his face as his dear sons bickered.

He meditated alone, now. His pillow was the only one in front of the fireplace. His sons hadn’t been pulled out in a long time, now. He hadn’t gotten to meditate since he put that beast down in the basement, but he decided to take advantage of one of its resting periods to finally get around to it. When he settled on that green pillow, legs crossed and hands pressed together in front of his chest, he could already feel himself falling into a sense of peace that he only found while meditating. He had thought of his greatest build ideas while meditating, figured out problems of all sorts, and just organized his cluttered mind and found general peace.

If he had to put a time to it, he’d say he got to meditate in peace for about fifteen minutes before that beast down in the cells started up its screaming. It was insulting Phil again, calling him a traitor, a horrible father, a liar, a thief, all the things Phil knew he wasn’t and yet, somehow, it got under his skin this time. He gritted his teeth, his hands shook, and then he finally dropped his posture. His head fell forward, his hands dropped into his lap, and his knees drooped. His bangs, grown much longer than he liked to keep them, dangled in front of his eyes. No one saw his tears, but he felt them. He felt them and heard his son screaming himself hoarse.

_ “I don’t know how to help him,” _ he whispered to no one but himself.

_ Niki? Fundy? Eret? _

The shell stopped screaming whenever Phil was down there. Instead, it watched him with dark, scrutinizing eyes. Phil felt like it was constantly trying to find a weakness, some deep and dark secret. He knew he would find none, but it still unnerved him.

_ Techno? Schlatt? Quackity? _

The shell started eating. Actually eating. They didn’t throw the plate, they didn’t ignore the food; they went from taking a few bites here and there to finishing entire servings. Slowly, they began to finish the plates. Phil started leaving a waterskin down there for them to drink between meals.

_ Dream? George? Sapnap? _

They stopped screaming at night. Phil could finally get some actual sleep. He relished every moment, and even let himself get his hopes up, only for them to be dashed when he woke up with that usual screaming at his alarm. They stopped looking at him when he came down with the plates of food and to refill the waterskin. They stayed hunched in the corner, back turned towards him as if they were a goblin. If this were anyone else, Phil would have made countless Blair Witch jokes by now.

_ Tubbo? _

When Phil needed to meditate, he meditated outside. He used some old redstone tricks to make himself a clock that would go off after thirty minutes. He didn’t want to stay away from the house for too long, even if he was just across the clearing.

_ Tommy? _

He didn’t get to appreciate those quiet nights for long. He started to have nightmares. He dreamt of l’Manberg being blown to bits. He dreamt of stabbing Wilbur, right in between his ribs. He could feel the warmth of his blood on his hands even when he snapped awake. He could hear him pleading, begging for him to kill him, putting that horrible twist on their beloved nickname for him.

_ It knew this basement _

_ Killza. Killza. Killza. _

_ They knew these stone brick walls _

They weren’t screaming today. Phil realized this with a jolt sometime before lunch. It had been quiet all morning. He had felt like something was off as he tended to his small bit of crops, and it was because there hadn’t been any screaming. None while he had been inside, none had woken him up this morning, and none had accompanied him while he made himself a quick breakfast before going out to tend to his crops. There had been no screaming, so he had forgotten to even feed them down there, and why weren’t they screaming?

_ He had helped place these iron bars _

He heard a door open. He didn’t look up from the dirty concrete floor. Tears streamed down his sunken cheeks, his hands shook from where they were pressed against the ground, and he looked so pale. Like a ghost. He heard footsteps, which paused just outside his cell. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t face him.

He heard the door open for the first time in...weeks? Months? How long had he been down here? How long had he been wasting away, screaming his throat raw?

“Wilbur.”

He lifted his head, shaking like a cat caught in a storm. His trench coat felt heavy, pressing down on his back and his shoulders. It felt like his spine was going to crack under the pressure, but he couldn’t find the strength to pull it off. He felt weak, as weak as a kitten and as pathetic as one. His vision was blurred by tears, but he could see the figure standing there in the doorway to his cell. He knew who it was the moment he heard his voice, and the bucket shaped hat on his head only sealed the deal.

“P-Phil-” His breath caught in his throat and he sobbed, bowing his head as he shook it. Phil took a few steps towards him, eyes weary as he searched for tricks but found none.

“Wilbur,” he said, again, and Wilbur let out a cry as he reached up and covered his eyes with one hand.

“D-Daddy,” he cried, “Daddy, what have I done…?”

Phil fell to his knees in front of his son and gathered him in his arms. Wilbur clung to him, buried himself into his chest like he was trying to hide himself from the world, and he cried. He cried and cried, and though it broke Phil’s heart, the sound made him rejoice all the same.

Finally. Finally, his son was back. The man in his arms was broken, but he was familiar nonetheless. He was something that Phil could fix.

***_*_*_*_***

He carried Wilbur back upstairs. Though he was taller than him, he was light. And not just because Phil was a warrior of old. They laid in front of the fireplace, roaring with a steady fire that could go on forever with the nether insulation Phil had installed into it. Wilbur was fast asleep, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he stayed curled into Phil’s side. Phil’s fingers carded through his long, tangled hair, and he knew he would have to get Wilbur in a bath tomorrow. But for now, he enjoyed the scene in front of him, relaxed in the familiar peacefulness that had fallen over them. He kissed the top of his head and as he did, he was taken back to years ago, when Wilbur and Techno were small enough to share a bed with him. Wilbur, with his mop of brown hair, and Techno, with his little piglin ears and his tusks that weren’t grown in just yet.

When they shared that bed with him, when Techno was eight and Wilbur was five, the boys would always find themselves clinging to each other during the night, and Phil would always wake up early enough to watch them before he would have to get up for the day. They were so precious at that age, so small and sweet… Techno was always the one to start clinging to Wilbur, simply because the piglin craved touch he had been denied for most of his early life in the Nether. He was also always so protective of Wilbur at that age, and though he showed it less when they grew, it was still there. Phil knew it was. That protectiveness was the reason Phil had even been called to the SMP.

That memory hadn’t been made at this place. It was made in a small, one story cottage that Phil had lived in for several updates. Then he found Techno in the Nether, and Wilbur in the forest months after, wounded from a skeleton. In less than a year, his house had been filled with two young boys. They shared a room when they were too big to share Phil’s bed with him. But up until that point, Phil had gotten many precious memories of waking up to them clinging to each other, curled into his side just like how Wilbur was now. They had to move out of that cottage when he found Tommy in the nearby village, a street urchin being chased by a merchant he had stolen from. The house wasn’t big enough for four people, especially when three of them were growing boys that needed their own space.

So they had moved. Phil should have sold the cottage off, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do it. He was wealthy enough from his long life that he didn’t really have to anyway. He still had the deed, somewhere in his…

His eyes widened.

“The cottage,” he whispered.

The cottage was where his son could find his peace. The cottage was where he could heal.

_ The cottage. _


End file.
